


0300 hrs

by LtTanyaBoone



Category: X Company
Genre: Gen, Interrogation, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtTanyaBoone/pseuds/LtTanyaBoone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>""You are going to talk. It’s only a question of time how long that will take." She bites her lip, her back arching in the chair as she tries to escape the pain of her hair being pulled. She’s not going to talk."</p>
            </blockquote>





	0300 hrs

 

She’s pulled out of bed by rough hands, dropped to the floor. Her knees hurt and make her gasp. A slap across her face and she’s pulled up, squinting at the flashlight being shone into her face before she is dragged, still half-asleep, head pounding, from her quarters. 

* * *

“What is your name?”

 She blinks, clenches her eyes shut and lets her hands curl into fists. Her hands are bound to the armrests of the chair, same as her legs are to the legs of the wooden chair. Her head is still pounding, a hangover from hell pulsating behind her eyelids. Her mouth feels like it has been filled with cotton, it’s hard to swallow. She wants a glass of water, just to wash her mouth from the taste of the alcohol she’d consumed earlier.

 “What. Is. Your. Name?” the voice repeats the question, more forcefully this time. She heard it the first five times but kept silent. As she was taught.

 The man - it is a man, judging from the sound of his voice, though Aurora cannot recognize it - lets out a sigh. Her hair is grabbed from behind, head yanked back and she lets out a pained gasp, unable to escape the pain. It shoots through her skull, settles as painful explosions of light against her eyelids. She squirms against her restraints, tries to kick her legs, but the restraints cut into her shins, through the thin material of her pyjamas. She’s almost thankful she wore them and not one of the slips she sometimes crawls into bed with when she’s too exhausted to change.

 “There are two ways we can do this,” the voice tells her as the hand tightens its hold on her curls, makes her attempt to reach up and stop them because this really hurts. “Either your answer my questions when I ask, or we find an incentive for you to do so. Either way, you are going to talk. It’s only a question of time how long that will take.”

She bites her lip, her back arching in the chair as she tries to escape the pain of her hair being pulled. She’s not going to talk.

* * *

She jerks awake when she hears the door open, eyes fluttering open, but her head rolls forward again.

 “It’s okay,” someone mutters, gentle hands stroking her cheek and she feels a straw being pressed against her lips. She opens her mouth and closes it around the drinking straw, sucking greedily. It takes her a moment to realize that her hands are no longer bound and she reaches out to take the glass, cradling it close.

“More?” the woman that untied her asks. She looks up, blinks at her.

“Krystina?”

Now she’s confused. More than before.

“Sorry,” the redhead flinches, carefully taking the glass from her an setting it down on the table. “Come, let’s get you back to your room. Lunch is waiting, and more water.”

Aurora cannot help but stare at the other woman before she breaks into laughter. Hysterical laughs bubbling from her throat as she shakes her head. She feels Krystina’s hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze as she tells her it’s okay.

“It was an exercise?” she asks, unable to stop laughing with relief.

“Sorry,” the other woman apologizes again as she helps her up, steadies her. “Sinclair’s orders. He saw you guys drinking and thought it would be a good opportunity to test how you would hold up.”

Slowly, they are making their way down the hall, her leaning onto Krystina, one hand on her forehead. Her head’s still pounding, reminding her of the two bottles of whiskey the team had emptied the evening before.

“How did I? Hold up?” she asks, licking her dry lips.

“Pretty good, actually,” Krystina tells her as she helps her sit down on her bed. She fills a cup with water and hands it over, making sure that Aurora can hold it by herself before she lets go of it. “Better than others,” she adds. Aurora looks up at her, sees the worried draw of her brows.

“What is it?” she asks, holding out the cup for a refill. The clock on the wall says it’s half past five, judging from the light, that means five in the afternoon.

“You get your official assessment soon. After you’ve had some food, water and plenty of rest.”

“Krystina-”

“I’m not allowed to say,” the redhead cuts of another inquiry. “Just, rest. You’re going to need it,” she tells her before reaching out to squeeze Aurora’s shoulder again. And then she leaves. Leaves the room and leaves her alone with her thoughts, leaves her wondering what happened during the interrogations of the others that has Krystina so anxious.

* * *

He’s thrown out of bed by someone grabbing is collar and yanking on it. He kicks out automatically but his head is slammed into the floor, making him see stars, and then someone is on his back, keeping him down as his hands are yanked behind his back and bound and a dark hood is thrown over his head, stealing his vision, plunging him into darkness.

* * *

He spits, the taste of blood still clinging to his mouth after. It doesn’t take long for him to feel it slosh around in his mouth again, too. He knows he shouldn’t provoke them further, but he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him.

 “The names,” the faceless voice demands again. He slowly shakes his head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs caused by too much alcohol and too many punches.

 “She had this, green dress. Fell just to her knees. Oh, great legs, that one. You know, some girls are shy, or play hard to get. Not her,” he continues his recounting of an affair that feels like it’s been way too long. “No, she was really eager. Red lipstick, like sin. Kisses like it, too.”

“That’s enough.”

He starts in surprise and cranes his neck at the voice.

“Good job,” Sinclair tells him and pats his shoulder as the light is aimed away from his face finally. He squints, blinks in surprise.

“Sir,” he starts, brain slowly working. He is definitely concussed.

 “You did good, Neil,” the man tells him as his restraints are loosened and holds out a cup of water for him. He grabs it and chucks greedily. “Go to the infirmary, have them look at that cut.”

With that, their commanding officer leaves the room. Leaves him to stare after him, only now realizing that this was an exercise and he got his face beaten for nothing.

* * *

He’s terrified. And pretty sure he wet his pants. Yeah, definitely sure, he thinks as he shifts in the chair, feeling the wetness between his legs.

His head is pounding, he can’t see properly. They took his glasses. Maybe that is a good thing, keeps him from making out the details of his predicament.

Where are the others? Aurora, and René, and Neil, and Tom. They wouldn’t leave him here. They’re going to get him out. He knows they will. He just has to hang in there long enough for them to come up with a plan.

If they are even still alive.

The thought makes a shiver run down his spine and tears spring to his eyes. He blinks furiously, hoping that his captors are not going to walk in this instant. If they do, they will know how weak he is, and they’re going to make him talk.

But where is his team? What even happened? They were drinking last night, and then... He can’t remember anything else, his mind goes blank after Tom places the third shot in front of him. He dimly remembers Aurora kissing his cheek and telling him goodnight, an amused lilt to her words.

Did they get raided? In Canada? He wants to think it’s impossible, but what if it wasn’t? What if the camp was overrun by German spies, and he was too drunk to defend it? What about his team? What happened to them? What happened to Aurora? She never made fun of him for being so weak, she would do anything to protect him, anything to get him out of here, if she were still alive. So where is she?

He flinches at the sound of heavy footsteps and then the door to his cell is opened. Another folder is tossed onto the table. His neck is grabbed again, a sheet of paper held in front of him.

“Which are the submarine codes?”

He trembles. He can’t help himself, he’s terrified. His mouth opens and he stammers out that he doesn’t know. It’s a lie. He knows. He clenches his eyes shut in an attempt to not accidentally look too long at a row of characters he recognizes. He’s not going to do that. If they have made it into the camp, it is only a question of how long it’ll take them to break down the last defenses of their military. He needs to keep quiet, keep what he knows to himself.

The man lets go of his neck and he lets out a soft whimper, unable to stop the tears. And then there is something else in his face, a picture, and his breath catches in his throat before he shakes his head violently.

“No,” he whimpers. “No, please, no,” he begs, pleads, moving against his restraints.

“Are you going to talk now?”

He sniffles and bows his head in shame. He can’t, he can’t do this. He cannot give them any of the information he knows, but he also cannot do this to his mother. She thinks he works in an office and is save, she has no idea what her son has gotten caught up in. But these bastards have a picture of her, and he knows what they will do. If he doesn’t talk, they will hurt her. She’s his mother, she’s always been there for him.

“Are. You. Going. To. Talk?” the voice presses, pulling his head by his hair. He lets out a pained scream and sobs and then he nods.

The man lets go of his hair and his head falls forward, sobs wrecking his body.

“Talk. The encryption code to launch a submarine attack,” the voice demands and he shifts and tries to wipe his snotty nose on his shoulder, tries to compose himself. Searches his brain. And then he talks. Gives the numbers and letters. Hears the scratching of a pen. It stops after the last character.

His chest is heaving as hands reach out, going for his right hand. He thinks they’re going to break his fingers now, but instead, his restraints are slowly untied. The lamp that was aimed right at his face the entire time is moved, the glare finally leaving his eyes.

“It’s okay, son,” the man that just yanked on his hair tells him. And then the door opens and Krystina walks in, and he starts crying again when he sees her.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she mutters and hugs him, lets him circle her waist and cling to her as she runs her hands through his hair in a soothing caress. “It was just an exercise, you’re okay. Your mom is okay,” she adds and he thinks he might collapse with the relief those words bring. He’d thought he’s signed her death sentence when he gave them the code of a German tank model.

* * *

 

He hums softly, the melody that’s been playing over and over in his head since he was tied to this chair. That he is trying to use to drown out the voice and the questions, tries to drown out the beating with.

She taught him. When they were tangled up in each other, lying in bed, too lazy to get up or move. He’d asked her what the notes she’d been humming to herself had been, when they’d been sitting in the lounge at the camp, trying to decipher messages. She’d been embarrassed first, that he’d heard. The codes used in the message she’d been given had reminded her of the lyrics of some French-Canadian folk song, and she’d hummed a few bars before she’d caught herself and gotten back to the task. He’d asked her to teach him the song, then. On a whim. Because she has a lovely voice and he likes to hear it. And clearly, it meant something to her, if she’d remembered it during work.

He hums it now. Hums it and tries to remember. Her hair, the softness of her curls as they glide through his fingers.

“What is the location of the Resistance members in Paris?”

The freckle right at the tip of her nose and the softness of the skin when he kisses it.

“What are the plans for the next retaliation strikes?”

The way she arches her back when he kisses her neck.

“When is the next troop movement?”

Her voice when she whispers to him in French, warm breath against his ear, his hands settled on her hips. How her smile lights up an entire room. How her laughter rings out and fills every space, even the darkest corners of his mind. How she looks at him with this expression in her eyes. How soft her lips are when they move against his. How her hands stroke over his chest after she’s unbuttoned his shirt; how her nails dig into his back when he presses her into the mattress.

He tries to imagine her hands instead of the blows that get rained down on him. Tries to imagine her voice, whispering soft nothings into his ear as her fingers rake through his hair.

When he finally does scream out in pain, it’s her name, over and over and over again. Until they stop, until his restraints are cut and he’s lowered to the ground. When he opens his eyes, he sees Sinclair’s worried frown and cannot help the chuckle that escapes him. He should have known.

* * *

 

“A German tank model identification. A rather vivid description of an intimate encounter with what we assume is a prostitute. The first name of an Allied spy. And the family recipe for apple pie,” Sinclair reads of before he looks up from the file at the team in front of him.

They do look a little worse for the wear. Especially Neil and René. He told the guys to go hard on these two. Neil’s background meant he had a higher threshold for pain being inflicted. And they needed to push René more because of his position as team leader.

That he is the only one who gave up somewhat valuable information is a concern. In the hands of Germans, they might not have known what “ _Aurora_ ” meant. Or they might have found out already and attempted to use it against him.

He knows that if they had laid more into him, Harry would have broken eventually. Knows that the young man, this boy would not have been able to repeatedly risk his mother’s life. That he even did it once is a small miracle. He is well aware of the betting pool that pops up whenever they do interrogation exercises, and he knows how high the odds had been stacked that Harry would break, and break horrifically.

“That’s four,” Harry speaks up. Sinclair looks at him. “We’re five people, you only read out four,” he explains.

_Ah._

“I know,” he nods. Tom shifts, holding his side. Hitting his kidneys had been a low blow, Sinclair is willing to admit that.

“So, what did number five give away?” he asks, voice slightly strained. Sinclair leans back in his chair and takes of his glasses, watching the five people in front of him. Watches as they all look at each other, trying to figure out who said what and what the big bad secret number five revealed might have been.

“Nothing,” he finally tells them. And sees Aurora incline her head, a soft blush coloring her cheeks. “She gave us absolutely nothing.”

Her head snaps up in surprise that he would reveal that it was her at the same time the boys all stare at her, completely dumbfounded.

“You kept silent?” Neil asks, his voice incredulous. Aurora swallows and attempt a shrug, flinching at the pain that shoots down her neck and shoulders.

“I was dehydrated, talking was too much of an effort,” she brushes it aside. Sinclair sees the frown on Neil’s face and on Tom’s. Sees the assumption.

“Aurora’s interrogation went on for fourteen hours, because she hadn’t spoken. We stopped each of yours after you had,” he reminds them. Sees each and every one of them calculate how much longer Aurora was laid into than them, how much longer she held out when they’d all already started talking. Watches as Harry’s eyes widen in shock and marvel, watches as Neil nods in acknowledgement and Tom swallows hard at the realization that between his grandmother’s apple pie and Aurora being finally released were ten hours. Watches as René simply stares at her in absolute wonderment.

“You have tonight off. I suggest working on your German and some morse code exercises. Krystina has new sheets for you. Dismissed,” he finally tells them and watches them turn and leave, filling out of the room. They don’t make it far before the boys start hugging her, Neil slapping Aurora’s shoulder in recognition of her capabilities.

He shakes his head and picks up his glasses again to go over the notes of each interrogation in detail. To make sure that next time will be just as much of a challenge for each and every one of them.

_fin._   


**Author's Note:**

> "Throw them out of bed at 0300. Interrogation training; the drunker the better." - Duncan Sinclair, S02E04  
> The line that inspired this, coupled with Krystina's "I remember when that was you guys".


End file.
